Studies in Ink
by Sony89
Summary: Now a multiple chapter fic. Tattoos tell us a lot about people, because every trace of ink has it's own special meaning. Find out about the tattoos that can be found on the skin of various Sherlock Characters, starting with and injured John and a troubled Sherlock.
1. John

This is my first fanfiction for BBC's SHERLOCK! Set after Season 2 Episode 3 to deal with my Reichenbach Blues. After Sherlocks return. I haven't written fanfiction in ages, and english is not my native language, so if you find any mistakes you can keep them :)

Enjoy!

* * *

**Studies in Ink**

John tried desperately to ignore the pain in his right leg and suppressed the groan that was coming from his mouth. He pressed both of his hands against the wound and clenched his teeth, but the pain didn't go away.

He knew it wasn't fatal. He was a doctor after all. But that didn't mean that the spot where the knife that had slashed his jeans open and took a bit of his flesh with it didn't hurt like hell. But more than anything, it was _annoying_. He could see through his tear-blurred eyes, that the drug dealer he had chased was getting away.

Once again, the brave doctor tried to stand up, pushed one of his hands against the dirty and wet ground of the dark alleyway, but slipped and skinned his elbow instead.

„John?"

Suddenly, John tried hard not to laugh. Even though Sherlock had returned over three months ago, the army doctor still sometimes thought it was a dream, when he heard the voice of the worlds only consulting detective in his ears. He could almost feel the footsteps of him, and probably Lestrade and his team, coming closer, all of their voices shouting his name to find him.

It had been reckless to follow the drug dealer, he knew that, but he had done a lot more reckless things during Sherlocks absence.

His train of thought was interrupted, when the footsteps suddenly stopped and he heard the shocked gasps from his friends and colleagues at the end of the alleyway while he still pressed his hand against his bleeding injury.

"_John!_"

"Oh, my god.."

"Sally, call an ambulance!"

A few tears of pain escaped his eyes and he once again groaned as he felt the warm blood drenching his trousers, but still, he tried to get up.

Suddenly, he could feel one of Sherlocks ice cold hands on his face, the other one placed on his, pressing on the wound.

"Oh god, John, you're bleeding.", he mumbled, more to himself than to the injured army doctor. He could feel Sherlock lifting, just long enough for him to place his upper body onto his lap. Johns vision was still a bit blurry from the angry tears he had shed, but he could see the expression of concern and guilt on his flatmates face.

"Oh, come on Holmes, stop that..", he moaned, a cocky smirk suddenly appearing on his face. "It's just a scratch."

At least DI Lestrade believed him, because he didn't lose any time and asked John where the drug dealer had run off to. As soon as the Inspector was gone, Sally Donovan came running into the alley and bent down to the consulting detective and his friend. "The ambulance is on it's way.", she said, trying to catch her breath, before she started to run again to help Lestrade.

John didn't even have the chance to say anything to her, because suddenly he concentrated on the hand that pressed on his on his thigh. Sherlock was shaking.

"Sh-Sherlock..", John hissed, ignoring a painful pinch that soared through his leg. He knew it was just his muscles acting up, but still it hurt. "Sherlock, it's nothing, really. I can barely feel-"

"Shut up..", the consulting detective interrupted and clenched the hand that was supporting Johns shoulder into his jumper. "You got hurt. It's my fault."

The army doctor wanted to argue, but all of a sudden, his vision got blurry again. '_What the hell-'_

"John?"

He could still hear Sherlock talk, but his mouth denied him the ability to speak to his friend. He wanted to tell him it was nothing. He wanted to tell him that it was not his fault. But he couldn't.

"John, stay with me. John? _John!_"

The last thing that John Watson saw, before he lost consciousness, was the concerned face of his favourite consulting detective, and he could have sworn, that he saw tears in his eyes. And then, everything went black.

* * *

The first thought that came to Johns mind when he woke up was: 'Damn you, Sherlock.'

It did not take him long to figure out the reason why he had fainted. The injury on his leg was really just a slightly bigger scratch, but all the running around across London, with nothing to eat but a small sandwhich on the run and less than two hours of sleep had taken its toll on John Watsons body.

He could feel that he was alone in the room and that it was in fact quite late – or early, however you thought about 3 A.M. John could feel the throbbing in his right thigh, but it was dull and he barely noticed it. Slowly, he opened his eyes and took a quick look around. He was lying on a hospital bet, covered in white, clean sheets that smelled of disinfectant. Other than the slight pain in his leg, he felt fine, but very, very tired. But he couldn't go back to sleep yet. He had to check if everything was still okay. He had to check that the secret he had kept from Sherlock had not taken any damage.

With an annoyed moan he pushed himself into a sitting position and shifted a little, so that the white sheets slipped off his right leg. Apparently the paramedics had removed his clothes to treat his wound. A terrifying thought suddenly took over Johns mind and he gulped. What if Sherlock knew? How could he explain? John was dressed in a simple hospital gown that barely covered his body. It was easy to slip it aside.

The army doctor sighed in relieve and carefully touched the ten fresh stitches that held the flesh together. The would was right under the few words that were written in ink, stitched into his leg almost two years ago.

"- don't care about the case right now, Lestrade! I'm going to check up on John!"

"Will you keep it down, Sherlock? We're in a hospital!"

"I don't _freakin_' care!"

"It's 3 o'clock in the morning, damnit!"

John hurried to cover himself up again and suppressed a laugh, when he heard the nurse scold the two men outside of his door for being so disrespectful and behaving like children in a hospital full of sick people who needed their rest. He also felt a touch of pride for the nurse when she said: "I don't care if you're from Scotland Yard, our patients are trying to sleep! So shut up or I'll have you both thrown out!"

Without a single thought, Sherlock burst into the room, fuming with anger, but stopped right in his tracks when he saw John, sitting up in his bed, fumbling with the sheets.

"John! You're awake!", he said, grinning like an idiot. The doctor watched his friend with concern. Sherlock seemed so out of character, but suddenly he couldn't bring himself to care. It was kind of sweet. Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bed, dangerously close to his injury, and John did his best not to look down nervously.

Lestrade came in only a few seconds later and sighed. He looked awfully tired and exhausted, but as soon as his eyes locked with Johns, he smiled.

"Glad to see you're awake John. How are you feeling?", he asked and turned on the lights before closing the door behind him.

Greg did not stay for very long though. What confused John though was, that Sherlock kept quiet during his whole conversation with the Inspector. Lestrade informed him that he and Sally had succeeded in catching the drug-dealer because John had delivered a massive punch to his head that made the guy so dizzy, he had fainted only three streets away. There were still a few lose ends on the case, which was why he had been looking for Sherlock, who had waited patiently for the last six hours at the doctors side.

With the promise to come by Baker Street soon, Greg left the room. "Feel better soon.", he said, before closing the door behind him.

Sherlock didn't waste a second.

"Let me see it."

"I'm sorry, what?"

Subconciously, Johns hands grabbed the sheets around him tighter, and he knew by the look on Sherlocks face, that he had not missed the movement. Confused, he looked down and watched the doctors hands, while speaking.

"Your injury. It's my fault that you got stabbed. I want to see it.", he said, reaching for the sheets.

Suddenly, Johns face turned an alarming shade of red. He would NOT show his leg to Sherlock. Absolutely not.

"No."

The detectives eyes met his again and his confusion grew.

"Why not?"

"Because!"

Sherlock snorted and with one strong pull, threw the sheets away from Johns lap all the way down to his knees. He rolled his eyes.

"Oh please, John. Don't tell me you're shy. You're an army doctor. And your anatomy is not different from any other man."

Sherlocks hands made their way to the end of Johns hospital gown. As fast as he could, John grabbed the detectives wrists and pressed them onto the matress.

"Stop it, Sherlock.", he hissed, but couldn't ban the embarrassed look from his face or the pleading sound in his voice.

"Seriously, John, don't be dull.", Sherlock complained, trying to free himself, but John fought. He did not want Sherlock to see. He couldn't let him see. So he grabbed Sherlocks wrists tighter.

But due to all the fighting and shifting, he did not notice the hospital gown slipping, exposing his injury and unfortunately, the tattoo that hewas desperately trying to hide. John didn't seem to notice at first, but as soon as he saw the shocked expression on his flat mates face, his eyes pinned to his right thigh, he knew that Sherlock had seen. He was not fighting any longer, didn't try to break free from Johns grip.

The doctor, seeing no point in restraining the young man anymore, let go of his wrists and placed his hands onto his own eyes instead, moaning and resting his back down onto the pillows.

"J-John..".

Sherlocks voice was shaking. The last time Watson had heard his flat mates voice this shaky, he had been standing on the edge of St. Bart's hospital, right before jumping off the roof.

John tried not to shiver as he felt Sherlocks tentative fingertips tracing the words on his thigh that had been stitched into the flesh, to stay for the rest of his life.

In simple, black ink, five words graced John Watsons skin:

**_'I believe in Sherlock Holmes'_**

"I don't understand.", the consulting detective finally confessed, hoping for an explanation. A laugh escaped Johns throat, but it almost sounded like a sob. He knew he had to tell him now.

"It's kind of embarrassing.", John admitted, finally looking at Sherlock again, smiling timidly. "I had it made four months after you... you know." After all this time he still couldn't say it. Ignoring the burning feeling in his eyes, he shook his head to tell the story.

"The newspapers, the journalists, the tv-reports. It was just too much for me. Everybody kept telling me that you were a fake, a fraud. Even though Lestrade solved the mystery behind Moriartys body on the roof and somehow proofed that you were not, they didn't seem to believe him."

Suddenly, as if he was afraid that he was talking to a ghost, John rested his hand on Sherlocks, that was still placed on his tattoo, and squeezed it.

"Everybody wanted me to believe that you were a fake. Even you. But I didn't buy it, because I had proof."

Absent mindedly, he wiped away the single tear that was running down his left cheek, before he continued. He was ashamed. "You cured my psychosomatic limp. And that was my proof. So I decided I would do something to remind me that you are not a fake. Something that would remind me that you were my friend, every single day. And what better spot to put such a reminder than my former psychosomatic limping leg?"

Before John could look into Sherlocks eyes (perhaps to see disgust, embarrassment, rejection) his breath got caught in his throat, because the consulting detective was encircling him in a bone-crushing hug.

"I've never been a fan of tattoos..", Sherlock confessed, making Johns stomach clench for just a second. "but I think I like this one. A lot."

John couldn't help but smile after hearing these words and responded to his friends hug. He could feel Sherlocks hair tickling his neck, his breath teasing the exposed flesh on his shoulder.

After a few moments though, they both coughed nervously and a little embarrassed, and John began to cover himself up again.

John was allowed to go home the next day to rest his leg at Baker Street, dressed in a fresh pair of jeans that Mrs. Hudson had brought for him to wear. The fabric stretched over the bandages that had been placed over the injury to prevent the friction between the trousers and the stitches. But other than the nurse and him, only sherlock knew that the fabric also covered up the proof of Sherlock Holmes, being a hero and a true friend – at least for John.

* * *

That was it! A little cheesy, huh? I don't know if I will continue this. I had the idea because I really like tattoos, but they have to have a meaning. If you just get stitched and don't like the motive a year later, it's a waste of time and money. And I thought it would be something that John would maybe do, just to remind himself that Sherlock was real.


	2. Sherlock

Here it is, part 2 of "Studies in Ink". This time, we discover yet another tattoo, I hope you like it :) I decided to continue this and make it more than a two-shot, because I have so many amazing ideas. I hope you like it!

* * *

**Studies in Ink - 2**

Although the days after his hospital release were quite odd, John enjoyed them. Sherlock still believed that it was his fault that the army doctor got injured, so he tried to do his best to be pleasant and "at your service" as he called it, by making him tea and fetching things for him, so that he wouldn't move around too much.

The first two days after his release from the hospital were quite nostalgic, because John limped around the flat in his pyjama pants and t-shirt with his orders to stay inside and rest his leg. Sherlock hated to see him this way. He knew that the limp was only going to be there for a few days, but it reminded him too much of the time when he had met John – a broken John.

But there was also something else. Every time he saw John move around, he was reminded of the ink on Johns leg, that was permanently stitched into his skin for the rest of his life. The tattoo had been a big surprise – the bigger surprise though had been his heartbeat, or the lack of one, upon seeing it. His heart had jumped, only to beat faster and harder a few seconds later in confusion and anxiety. What did it mean? He was a genius, sure he could figure it out?

Even days later, after Johns explanation, Sherlock couldn't seem to figure out why he couldn't stop thinking about his flatmates tattoo. He was intrigued, curious, wanted to know more. So one day, he did what he always did in situations like this – he started an experiment.

* * *

The painkillers made him sleepy, so it was no wonder that John almost didn't notice that he was being harassed in his sleep once again by his mad flatmate Sherlock. Almost. Painkillers or not, he was still a soldier.

"Sh'lock?", he mumbled and tried to move, yawning. He had stopped being mad at Sherlock for disturbing his sleep long ago. His constant experiments involving him kept being annoying, but mostly harmless.

He glanced at his alarm clock and sighed. It was not even four in the morning, still it was dark outside. And yet, Sherlock thought it would be appropriate to sit on top of Johns bed and grabbing the hands of the sleeping army doctor to coat them in... was it ink?

"What are you doing?", he asked, trying to sit up.

"Nothing of importance to you, John. Go back to sleep.", came the answer in a deep baritone experiment-mode voice. Slowly, Sherlock moved Johns left hand onto a piece of paper and carefully pressed the fingertips of the army doctor onto the white surface. John rolled his eyes and sighed, pinching his nose with his still clean right hand.

"Sherlock, did it ever occur to you that it might be impossible for me to sleep while you sit in my bed and invade my personal space again?", he groaned, shutting his eyes as hard as he could. Maybe Sherlock would just go and leave him in peace for the rest of the night.

Instead of standing up though, Sherlock ignored him and climbed over Johns body to grasp his right hand as well, ignoring another annoyed moan from John, who shifted to at least try and be a little more comfortable while the consulting detective applied the ink to his hand.

"Is the test subject allowed to ask a question at least?"

Sherlock nodded, concentrating on applying Johns fingers to the white paper with utmost care. "You are of course allowed to speak, John. The question is whether I deem your inquiry worthy of an answer."

The army doctor thought he was way too tired to be infuriated and just took a deep breath before posing his question, as calmly as he could. "Why are you taking my fingerprints?"

Dropping Johns hand without care, Sherlock rolled off John's mattress with grace, folded the paper carefully and opened the door to leave the room.

"For an experiment, of course."

* * *

The next day, John had washed the evidence of Sherlock's late night experiment off his hands and didn't think about it for weeks. The consulting detective didn't normally share the outcomes of his experiments with John. The ones that ended in explosions were hard to ignore anyway, so John was glad that Sherlock had seemingly reached silent and satisfying results, because he didn't try to take his fingerprints again.

Three months after Sherlock's nightly visit, Johns wound was long healed and the experiment on his fingers was long forgotten. It was purely on accident that the army doctor saw the result of his flatmates endeavour.

"Argh... BOLLOCKS!"

It was very rare for Sherlock to use words like that, but it wasn't really the cursing that made John run from the kitchen to the living room, it was the slight pain that he had heard in his flatmates voice and his urge as a doctor to help him.

"Sherlock?", he asked, but it was obvious, even for him, what had happened. The fact that the great consulting detective Sherlock Holmes had just been reduced to swearing by a dull, domestic accident was almost funny. He had knocked over his teacup, pouring the still steaming hot liquid all over his favourite purple shirt.

Johns concern was stronger than his urge to laugh though, so he took the few steps to his flatmate and sighed. But he couldn't hide the amused smile on his face as he reached for Sherlock's buttons.

"I told you, you have to be more careful. Let me take a look.", he said.

Sherlock gulped. John was in doctor mode, but the younger man knew that this would not last for long. He almost didn't want him to see it, but he knew that now it was too late to pull away. And the steaming liquid on his shirt still hurt, so it was probably better to look at the damage.

Quite unceremoniously, John threw the wet shirt behind his back and looked at the reddened skin of Sherlock's bare chest to examine if the burns were bad. It didn't take long to see that with a few drops of cream the burn would heal in no time.

John reached for the dressing gown he knew was placed on the couch behind Sherlock to give it to his patient, but his eyes caught a tiny black spot over the left side on the detectives chest and it made him freeze.

Quite surprised, but unusually calm, John brushed his right hand over Sherlock's heart and came even closer to examine the black lines of ink that graced the pale chest before him. John opened his mouth to speak, but found he was at a loss of words. He closed and opened it again, but the things he wanted to say wouldn't go past his lips.

"Sherlock...", was the only word that escaped him after what seemed hours, which he had spent to examine the tiny tattoo. It was, without a doubt, one of John Watson's fingerprints, that was forever stitched into the consulting detective's skin.

"I-I'm sorry John. Please don't be mad."

Confused at the anxiety and the nervousness in Sherlock's voice, John finally lifted his head to watch his face. Why was he apologizing?

"I just couldn't stop thinking about your tattoo, you know? It was such a wonderful and nice thing of you to do and I couldn't help but wonder how it would feel to have something like that for myself. I was being selfish again."

John wanted to say something, but it seemed that Sherlock had the words long prepared, and they were flowing out of his mouth like a waterfall.

"Then I thought about the significance and the thought you put into your tattoo. You had it made because I cured your psychosomatic limp, so I thought about all the countless things you do for me. You make sure that I eat, drink and sleep enough, you try to keep me from being bored and you heal my injuries, not to mention you save my life every once in a while. But the most important thing was-"

Sherlock made a pause, suddenly at a loss of words, but John didn't interrupt him. He knew if he said something now, he would never know why this man in front of him wanted to tattoo his fingerprint on his chest.

"You, John Watson, are the living proof of my heart not only being an organ that pumps blood through my veins. You are the first and most important of my very few friends and you are the first to make an imprint on my heart. And I _know_ it sounds utterly cheesy, so don't you dare laugh or i'll have it removed."

Silence filled the living room of 221B Baker Street and Sherlock was sure that there had only been a few occasions in his life where he had been this nervous. He could feel his heart racing in anticipation, almost making the fingerprint on his chest move in synch with it's beating.

Finally, John reacted, but not in the way Sherlock had thought he would. He expected John to be angry for just using one of his fingerprints like that. He expected him to be annoyed for "stealing" his brilliant and wonderful idea. He feared that John might be disgusted by this. Being a pessimist, Sherlock would have never deduced what the doctor did next. Leaning forward, John pressed a feather-light kiss over Sherlock's tattoo, barely a touch of lips, only a grace, before removing his face, reaching behind the consulting detective and giving him his robe so he could cover himself.

"You're right Sherlock, I am mad at you.", John sighed, not being able to look his flatmate in the eyes. "I'm mad because you hid this from me, but I hid my tattoo from you too, so I am in no position to judge you. Although if you ever think of removing my fingerprint from your skin, I will punch you. And now sit down, I will get some cream for your burn."

While John vanished from the room, much faster than need be, due to being hugely embarrassed by his actions, Sherlock still stood in the living room, clutching his robe in his hands and desperately trying to ignore the chills that Johns lips had sent up and down his spine, or forget the look of happiness on Johns face that the little drops of black ink had brought to it.

* * *

Yes, I know, Sherlocks reaction at the end is a little out of character (as it was in the first chapter) but I just can't help but write him less adorable. How do you like the fingerprint tattoo? I have to change the genre to friendship/romance now, because I have to admit, I'm a sucker for Johnlock romance, altough i've never written something like this before.

Next up will be the tattoo of Sergeant Donovan, so stay tuned :)


	3. Sally

And here it is, folks. The tattoos of Sally, i hope you enjoy it! It's something that is themed with the awesome summer weather we have in Austria right now.**  
**

* * *

**Studies in Ink - 3  
**

Sergeant Sally Donovan could be described in many words. Depending on the person talking about her, it could either be bitchy, suspicious and angry, or otherwise caring, beautiful and determined. She did agree to most of the words. Her suspiciousness, determination and a caring heart made her a damn good officer and she told herself everyday that she was born to be a policewoman.

Nevertheless, there were cases she just couldn't solve, people she couldn't save, things she couldn't do. That was when Sherlock Holmes usually entered the game. But even he had not been perfect. When it came to her job it was normal that her work began as soon as a life ended. When they had the rare chance to save someone, because of an abduction for example, she and the team did their best to help – but they did not always come on time. She knew that it was impossible to save everyone, but there are a few cases in which she feels responsible for the deaths of the victims.

And because she is a caring person with a big heart, despite her bitchyness, which protects her sometimes, she puts a special reminder into her skin to never forget about the people she had failed.

* * *

Sherlock is not an idiot. It doesn't take a lot of brainwork to figure out the meaning behind the five tattoos that run down Sally Donovans spine and mark her back like a snake crawling down her skin.

The circumstances in which he sees her tattoos are quite odd though. Lestrade had asked for his and Johns assistance. Never would he have agreed, had he suspected that the case required him to put on swim trunks and wander around the pool area with no one other than Sally, wearing nothing but a skin-tight black bathing suit that did not cover her back.

They were holding hands, as they were supposed to be a couple in this undercover mission, taking a stroll around the pool, the sun burning their skin and making them sweat.

The meaning of the first tattoo was easy to deduce. Just under Sally's shoulder blades, the name **Michelle **was stitched into her skin with thin and swinging ink lines. He remembered it clearly. A little girl had been kidnapped, Michelle Reynolds, three years old. A cute blonde girl, daughter of a famous politician, abducted for money. The father had refused to pay for the child he obviously didn't care for, but Sally had still kept on searching for her. Upon recognising that the girl was of no value to them, they had put a bullet to her head and had dumped her body unceremoniously into the river. Up until this day Sally felt responsible for not finding the little girl sooner.

The second tattoo right underneath Michelles name was not so easy to link with a case, but after a few minutes, only interrupted by a little kid that had almost bumped into the strolling couple, he remembered. Coloured in shades of blue and yellow, two small **flowers** graced Sallys skin. Again, the tattoo symbolised the death of women, a mother and a daughter, both florists, whose shop had been burned down in the middle of the night, both of them dying horrible deaths in the burning flames. They had received a threat in the mail a few days before and Sally had been placed in an undercover car outside their home to keep watch at night. Unfortunately, the killer had been clever. He had driven his own car and rammed it into Sallys, successfully trapping her inside. She had lost consciousness and woke up hours after the crime in the hospital with a broken leg and the message that the people she was supposed to watch were dead. Although she could have done nothing to prevent it, she still felt responsible.

Sherlock and Sally reached the blanket they had brought and sat down, Sally lying down on her stomach, the rest of her tattoos on full display. The consulting detective knew that her eyes were scanning the crowd, searching for the one suspicious act that would reveal the man who kept on kidnapping kids, in other words, their target.

The third tattoo was also a name, again stitched into her skin in black ink, but it was not written in a girly font like the first one, it would not have fitted for a man's name. **Robert** had not been a case she had worked on, still the sentiment she harboured for him was strong. Sherlock knew that somehow Sally Donovan thought she was responsible for her cousins death, who had been shot by a homophobic man-hunter in broad daylight near Hyde Park just for being gay. The young Sergeant had not been present when Lestrade had arrested the murderer, but Sherlock knew that although justice had been served, she still thought that just because she was a policewoman, she had failed in protecting her family.

Sherlock is not pleased with himself, but after a few minutes of staring he has to admit that he really doesn't know why the next tattoo, just under Roberts name, is a **firefly**. The question is on the tip of his tongue, when suddenly, Sally places her hand on his knee and nods her head to her right.

"What about him?", she whispers and sits up straight, ready for pursuit. He can't help but think that Sally really is a good officer as he stands up and grabs her hand. "Possible, very possible, Sally. Good eyes."

She says nothing, only grabs his hand a little tighter, searching for DI Lestrade in the crowd. She knows that he and Dr. Watson are here somewhere, watching their every move.

As they pursue the possible kidnapper, Sherlock walking close to the edge of the pool, he can't help but notice the last tattoo of the line of ink imprints that decorate the Sergeant's spine. He almost freezes, but the only reaction that is visible are his eyebrows furrowing. Confused, he looks at the three numbers and one letter that are stitched into Sallys skin, reminding him of his own address, **221B**. He can't help but remember the scene at Scotland Yard a few months ago, when he had stepped into the building, watched by dozens of policemen and -women who had thought him dead. Upon arriving at Lestrades office, Anderson had fainted, Greg had dropped his coffee mug in shock and Sally – well, a heartwarming smile and a "Hello again.", had been the only things she had said before stepping out. Two weeks later, she had turned up at 221B, apologizing for her behaviour in the last years.

Of course that had not lead to a wonderful friendship, that seemed entirely impossible at this point, but Sherlock was pleased to notice that in his mind, Sally Donovan had earned the status of a mutually respected colleague and a 'not-always-useless-idiot'. The question now was, why did she think she had failed him? So badly that his address was stitched into her skin permanently?

Before he could ask though, all hell broke loose.

"Look out!", was the last thing he heard before he was pushed into the pool. He was suddenly aware of the banging noise of a bullet only missing him by mere inches. Upon breaking the surface and watching in confusion, he saw Sally, performing a spectacular roundhouse kick, sending the kidnapper and his drawn gun into the pool.

Seconds later, Sherlock was underwater, securing the gun, while around him, the surface of the water broke and three undercover agents of scotland yard dived for the unconcious kidnapper.

"Sally..", he breathed, heaving himself out of the pool, sitting on the edge and giving her the gun. "I have to say, that was utterly spectacular. Good job."

Moments later he had to admit, that Sally Donovan looked almost cute when she smiled. Still he had no chance to ask her about the Baker Street tattoo, because all of a sudden, John was beside him, checking him for injuries, while Lestrade phoned for an ambulance and Sally helped pulling the man she had kicked unconcious out of the water. Asking for a reason why she thought she had been failing could wait. Right now, it was time to watch Sergeant Sally Donovan do what she had been born to do. And frankly speaking, she did a good job.

* * *

Well, i like Sally, despite her bitchyness. The only time i really despised her was in the Reichenbach Fall, so i thought i had to write something that delivered a reason. I hope you liked it. Next up will be - **King Moriarty! **

Your reviews and favourites are all appreciated, you guys are amazing :)


	4. King Moriarty

And now - *drumroll* - the tattoo of the one and only Mr. Moriarty! Mind you, this is a scene before The Reichenbach Fall, i hope you like it!

* * *

**Studies in Ink - 4 **

The water from the shower was raining down onto his shoulders, massaging his muscles. The droplets were running down his arms, drenching his hair, dripping off his jaw and cheekbones, making their way down his stomach and his back. On their way down between his shoulder blades, they passed the one and only tattoo that decorated James Moriarty's body. It was small, a dark spot of black ink, shaped like a crown.

He sighed in relieve, his whole body shaking with anxiety. Today was the day. His costume was already waiting on his bed, simple jeans, t-shirt and a cap. Sure, he preferred his Westwood suits, but pretending to be a tourist was a price he paid with joy, considering that in just a few hours he would be able to wear the crown jewels, if only for a few minutes.

He had the tattoo made at the tender age of seventeen. Of course he had known at a very young age, that he was different from others. More interesting, extraordinary, special. The proof had been the fact that, although he had been successful in killing the despicable Carl Powers by poisoning him, nobody had even suspected it. He was just _too clever_.

For him it became clear that he was not just a genius, not just a criminal mastermind – he was a _king_.

He had just finished school though. It was tedious that, just because he was a young man of 17 years, people still thought he was a kid, not thinking of him as a serious threat. Not even his parents suspected that he was the most dangerous person they would ever cross paths with. One would think that you know if you give birth to pure evil and genius, but all his mother ever did was treat him with the utmost care and love – it was despicable.

Jim was a pretty good actor, so it was no surprise to him that the people around him bought the act of him being utterly shocked and depressed by his parents fiery car crash when he was 16, suddenly left alone in the big bad world, with nobody to care for him. How horrible. And not a single soul suspected him. _Again_.

Of course, nobody knew the real meaning behind the small crown that the tattoo artist stitched into his back, free of charge of course, unless he wanted his wife to know that he secretly preferred to have sex with people who possess the same body parts as he did.

But the anticipation and joy he had felt while the needle had pinched the ink into his skin was nothing compared with the anxiety he felt as the shower washed away the stress of the previous days. Really, it was way too annoying to find people who could _think_ properly. It was worth it though.

How would Sherlock react to this? He was fond of playing chess with the consulting detective, and he was also sure, that he would win. He was the king after all. Sherlock had all the power of a king, if you compared him to a chess piece. He had a whole bunch of helping hands and underlings, but unlike himself, he was not controlling them. The real power lay with the king who knew how to play the game properly, who would stand on the top. After all, in a game of chess, only one king would be victorious.

Slowly, with a wide grin on his face, James Moriarty stepped out of the shower, ready to play. Time to make the first move. Time to solve the final problem.

Little did he know, that only a few weeks later, he would lie on a slab in Molly Hooper's morgue, cold and defeated, the crown between his shoulder blades nothing but a meaningless symbol.

* * *

I know, it's way too short. But who cares? Sometimes the short ones are the most thrilling! Did you like it?

Next up: Molly Hooper!


	5. Molly

For some reason I'm not really happy with this one - maybe because it's not that much about Molly and her tattoos? Well i hope you like it anyway. Tell me about what you think of her Ink and wheter you like it or not ^^' A little bit of Johnlock in this one, so that counts for something, right?

* * *

**Studies in Ink – 5  
**

Most of his life, Sherlock Holmes had been sure of one thing: he did not posses a heart. John Watson had found it though, switched it on, so to say. Suddenly he was aware that there were people in his life that he cared about, who triggered the desire in him to protect them, look out for them, and the wish that they would feel the same for him in return. And to be honest – it was terrifying.

It took him a while to adjust to these feelings. Slowly, he realised that he always had them, but just wasn't aware of what they were exactly.

The second alarming sensation was, that he had a complete false imagination of what a "heart" really was. He had always assumed that, if he had a heart, it would belong to him, and to him alone. How could he have been so wrong? The knowledge that it secretly belonged to someone else was not that much of a surprise – the fact that it belonged to more than one person though was quite a shock.

Silently, his friends and his family had sneaked their own little rooms in his heart and not only in his mind palace. There was a place in his heart for his mother of course and, as unhappy as he was to admit it, for Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson occupied a nice and cosy corner, he was even fond of Lestrade. John Watson, he had to admit, had made the largest imprint on his heart so far. The army doctor was the currently reigning king, sitting on his throne in Sherlocks mind palace holding his heart in his perfectly steady, strong hands, without even knowing it.

What had surprised him the most, and what nobody ever suspected, not even Moriarty, was that quite a large corner of his heart belonged to Molly Hooper. She had taken him in after his "Fall", not to mention all the help she had provided for survival. He knew that It must have been absolutely horrible for her to pretend that he was dead, especially when dealing with John.

Sherlock had stayed in her flat for three months, preparing for his manhunt, before contacting Mycroft. In these three months, it was obvious that Molly's crush on him had faded – which had given way for both of them to a wonderful friendship.

The topic of their friendship had not been one for discussion between him and John though. At least up until a cold November night, a few weeks after his return.

* * *

John was exhausted. Really exhausted. It took all of his strength to stumble upstairs. The surgery had been busy, the flu was having a feast in London. All he wanted was a nice, hot shower, a cup of tea and fall into his cosy, warm bed and sleep all through Sunday. Little did he know that he'd have to adjust his sleeping arrangements a little for this weekend.

Deciding that he could always say hello to Sherlock after his shower, he made a turn for the bathroom immediately instead of popping into the living room, not noticing the unfamiliar shoes in the hallway.

Yawning and rubbing his eyes, he turned the doorknob and entered the bathroom – to find a very naked and wet Molly Hooper just stepping out of the shower, clutching a towel to her body that did not really cover much.

"IIIEEK!"

"Oh, God! Sorry, Molly!"

"John, the DOOR!"

"Yes! Sorry.. uhm... What are you – uhm.. sorry..."

John, in his confusion, had just put one of his hands over his eyes and turned around, without closing the door. Molly had tried to cover herself, no hands free to closing the door. All of his fatigue had faded in a few seconds. Shocked and quite surprised, John stumbled into the living room. That was an image he would not forget for a while.

"Sherlock?", he squeaked, cleared his throat and tried again. "Sherlock, are you there?"

"Over here, John.", came a voice from the kitchen.

John took a few steps and found the consulting detective bent over his microscope, involved with his experiments.

"I am a bit confused.", John confessed and leant against the doorframe, trying to catch his flatmates attention.

Sherlock sighed. "I know it's been some time since a woman took her clothes off in our flat, John, but I assure you that is not a reason for you to question your sexuality. No need to be alarmed." His eyes never left his experiment, but he was aware of the shocked expression on Johns face. "The squeaking noise from Molly was quite adorable though."

"T-That's not what I meant!", John said, trying not to blush. "I was just confused by the fact that Molly Hooper, who was not my flatmate the last time I checked, had a shower in our bathroom."

Knowing that explaining would take a while, Sherlock finally took his eyes away from the microscope and faced John.

"Well, I told you that after my.. erm..._disappearance_, I lived with Molly for a while, yes?"

John only nodded, not wanting to think about mentioned disappearance.

"While you were at work today, I spent most of my time at Scotland Yard, going through some cold cases with Lestrade. All of a sudden, a call comes in. Next thing I know, Lestrade goes all pale and drags me into a car, informing me that Molly has been attacked at her flat and she needed assistance. Why he is so fond of her all of a sudden, I haven't figured out yet, but-"

Johns eyes had gone wide and he raised his hands to stop Sherlock's rant. "W-Wait a second. Did you just say she was attacked? Is she okay?" Since he had closed his eyes shut the minute he realised that Molly was naked, he hadn't really seen much of her and certainly not checked for any injuries.

Before Sherlock could answer though, Molly entered the kitchen, wrapped only in a towel, pressing a few tissues to her left shoulder.

"I-I'm okay, the knife just nicked me. But, I was wondering, John, could you maybe-"

John, suddenly very concerned, ushered Molly over to sit in Sherlock's armchair before he went to get the first aid kit that was resting on top of the fridge. With the detective's experiments it seemed only good to have the kit in the room, just in case he blew something up again.

"Molly, do try not to distract the good doctor too much. Your tattoos draw a lot of attention.", said Sherlock, who had returned his gaze to his experiments, an amused smirk on his face. Clearly there was some kind of inside joke going on, because Molly smiled as well, but said nothing, leaving John to wonder what they were talking about.

The young woman rolled her eyes and removed the tissues from her shoulder so John could take a look at it. Two years ago, the doctor could not have imagined Molly to ever give a sneaky remark to Sherlock, but today it seemed quite natural.

"Oh please.", she said. "I'm sure my cleavage is not that distracting for John, he's a doctor. He has seen a fair share of female body parts, I imagine."

"Well, I was quite distracted the first time I saw them.", Sherlock replied, ignoring Johns surprised noise.

Of course, having heard those words, he just had to look. The fact that Molly was only wearing a towel, so he could treat her wound better, was not helping. Peeking out between her breasts, two very small tattoos in the shape of cat-paws were decorating Molly's cleavage almost playfully, drawing attention.

John didn't know if he should think of them as cute or sexy, so he just shook his head to get the image out of his head and started to apply a bandage onto his friends shoulder.

"So, you were attacked at your flat?", he asked, his voice a little higher than usual.

"Yes", she answered and sighed. Clearly, she was more annoyed than scared. "I don't know why yet, but Sherlock over there thinks it might be connected to the case he is working on right now."

"Molly succeeded in kicking her attacker's groin quite hard, so he is a little indisposed at the moment. Still I insisted she stays here for a few days, just in case there are others who want to harm her.", Sherlock continued, finally giving up on his experiment. He just couldn't work with people talking to much.

"There you go, Molly, all set. And I agree with Sherlock, you should stay here for a while."

She sighed and stood up. "Thank you John. But guys, it's really not necessary, I can look after myself.", she said, clutching her towel closer, not in the least bit self conscious. John was impressed. Only two years prior he would never have thought that he would see Molly like that, _ever_.

Once again, Sherlock smirked. "Oh, you're just saying that because you had hoped to stay over at _Greg's_."

Johns eyebrows furrowed, but Molly only stuck out her tongue to the consulting detective, before leaving the room to get dressed.

"When did she get so witty? And what is up with her... _kitty paws_?", John asked.

Sherlock turned away again, applying his habit to speaking while not looking at him. "It seems that once she got used to living with me, she learnt how to deal with my idiosyncrasies, as she calls them. I only discovered her tattoos on accident, in a similar manner that you did. Her flat is very small, it's inevitable to see a good portion of each others.. erm.. skin. She never told me the reason behind her tattoos, but I think they suite her perfectly."

John felt a headache pounding on his temples. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. Sherlock could be so.. so.. _exhausting_ sometimes.

"Where is she going to sleep? I'm not going to let a female guest sleep on our couch.", he said after a few moments and feared the answer.

"I offered her my room John, no worries. I'll have to stay with you for the time being, surely that's not a problem?"

_Yes, that is a problem_, John thought, but kept his mouth shut.

"Fine.", he groaned and rubbed his eyes, suddenly feeling the weight of the day on his shoulders again. "But if you ever try to barge in on me while I'm changing, I'm going to punch you."

Sherlock snorted and shook his head, amused. "Why would I do that, John? I mean it's not like I would find any other tattoos on your body that you're hiding from me, right?"

When he received no answer, he turned his head again, only to find a smirking army doctor looking back at him teasingly.

"_Right_?"

John only turned around and made his way to his bedroom, ignoring Sherlock's '_oh no, you don'ts_ and _John!s'_, secretly forming a plan to avoid being molested in his sleep, just because Sherlock was searching for the other tattoos that were decorating his skin.

* * *

So that's it, Mollys kitty tattoos :) What do you think? Next up will be JOHN AGAIN! I just love drawing Tattoos onto his skin. Anyone else you would like? ;) Thanks again for all the favs and reviews, you guys are amazing, I'm glad you like the story!


	6. John 2

Here we go :) Took me a while, but here it is, Johns second tattoo :) I hope you enjoy it!**  
**

* * *

**Studies in Ink 6**

John had done an amazing job in hiding his remaining tattoos so far, but a few weeks after Molly had returned to her flat and Sherlock had started sleeping in his own bed again, the army doctor dropped his defences a little.

He didn't know why he wanted to hide the rest of his tattoos from Sherlock. Maybe it was the fact, that there were still a few things that the consulting detective did not know about him?

Even Sherlock forgot about it for a while and concentrated on cases instead. But both of them didn't expect that the next time Sherlock saw one of Johns other tattoos was a complete accident.

* * *

John was in a bad mood. They were walking towards Baker Street, exhausted, sweaty and dirty after running after a suspect. It did not often happen that they were able to escape, but today the traffic in London and the huge number of people on the street were not in the duos favour, so after a while they had admitted defeat.

They were walking trough Regent's Park in the middle of the night, not another living soul was to be seen and the way seemed to have no end. All of a sudden, all John wanted to do is sit down and rest for just a few moments.

The muscles in his leg were acting up again. It was summer, so the night was still quite warm, no use for a jumper or a jacket. Still, his leg seemed to sense a change in the weather – it would be raining soon.

But John wanted to sit down. So without even asking Sherlock or making sure that he waited for him, the army doctor sat himself down on one of the park benches, right beneath a lantern, leaned against the backrest, closed his eyes and sighed.

Sherlock had been babbling without stopping, cursing the Yard, cursing the cabbies and the traffic in London and blaming Mycroft, because he was sure he could somehow make this his brothers fault. He only noticed that John had stopped and sat down, a few steps along, when his companion failed to give his occasional grunt of approval. He also had lost his scarf and coat, still he looked stunning in his suit. He was tired as well but when he stepped back to stand beside John he quickly noticed that he would NOT sit down on the bench.

"Uhm... John?"

"What, Sherlock? I'm tired, just give me a few minutes.", he moaned, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He knew it would only take ten more minutes before he would reach Baker Street, but somehow he just wanted to sit for a little while and rest.

"But John-"

"No, Sherlock. You can go on if you want, I'll catch up."

John didn't hear Sherlock leave, all he heard was a shifting of clothing and a nervous tap of a foot. When he finally opened his eyes, Sherlock stood in front of him, biting his bottom lip to supress a smirk, his arms crossed.

"What?", John asked, already knowing that he would not like the answer.

"Oh, nothing. You just sat down on a fresh painted park bench, that's all.", Sherlock said, his body shaking with giggles that wanted to come out of his mouth.

John immediately jumped and heared the gruesome sound of sticking fabric that was ripped off of fresh paint on wood. He cocked his head, trying to see the damage on the back of his T-Shirt and trousers. There were white stripes all over his clothes.

"Oh, Bollocks.", he cursed, lifting up the hem of his shirt a little and spinning around in a circle. "This shirt is new!"

A few seconds later he didn't think about his shirt at all, because Sherlock suddenly grabbed his hips from behind and pushed him forward, with such force, that he had to lean his hands on the armrest, still wet with paint. Great.

"Sherlock? What the hell are you doing!", suddenly very grateful that he had his back to the consulting detective. If he saw the blush that was on his face, he would never hear the end of it.

Seconds later, he could feel it. Sherlock was lifting the hem of his shirt just a little. He had discovered what John had been trying to hide. Yet another tattoo.

"Whose heartbeat is this?", the consulting detective asked, simply fascinated by the sinus-rythm heartbeat tattoo that was stitched into Johns skin right above his hipbone. A thin, elegant line from left to right, two heartbeats, like you would see them on a monitor in a hospital. _Fascinating_.

John tried not to think about this awkward and extremely suggestive position they were in, and he definitely tried to ignore Sherlock's right thumb that was tracing his tattoo, took a deep breath and answered. "It's mine."

All of a sudden, Sherlock let go of him and took two steps back. When John turned around he was surprised that his friend looked kind of flustered, but it only lasted a second before he cleared his throat and asked another question. John took the time to try and wipe the white paint of his hands without much success.

"Why do you have your heartbeat tattooed above your.. uhm.. backside? I'm given to understand that this particular spot is a place where prostitutes get tattoos."

John flashed him a warning glare, but sadly Sherlock wasn't the first one to comment on that. The truth was it just seemed like a good place to put it. He started to walk again, his fatigue suddenly forgotten, but he chose a slow pace. Ten minutes would be enough to tell Sherlock about this tattoo.

"When I got shot in Afghanistan, I was taken to one of the nearby hospitals with a helicopter. I must have fainted from bloodloss during the flight, because the next time woke up I was already out of surgery, my body full of painkillers and the would treated. One of the nurses who spoke english, told me that for half a minute my heart stopped beating." John went on, leaving the park and stepping onto the pavement, only two corners away from Baker Street. He didn't dare to look at Sherlock. He did not want to see the look of concern in his friends eyes, so he continued.

"When I got sent home, my shoulder was still not healed properly. The nice nurse gave me a piece of paper as a goodbye present, and the line of my heartbeat was printed on it. She said I should take an extra heartbeat with me, in case it might skip one or two beats again." A smile appeared on Johns face as he remebered the nurse. She had been one of the reasons why he didn't go crazy In the hospital. She was nice, talked to him whenever she had the time and tried to give him information from the battlefield. They had agreed to write letters to each other, but only had time to do so once or twice a year. John had sent his last one two months ago, eagerly waiting for the young nurse to reply and tell him how she was doing. And everytime she replied, the sheet of paper she had given to him was sent back and forth between him and her.

"So you thought in case you might lose it someday it's better to have an extra heartbeat on your body?", Sherlock asked, his voice somehow husky, like he was talking more to himself than to John.

Upon reaching the door of 221B, Johns bad mood was gone. Although he got the tattoo because he had been shot, the story behind it was not a sad one – because he had survived.

He put his key into the lock and turned around to smile at Sherlock. "Something like that. My other tattoos don't have such exciting stories I'm afraid, they're kinda dull."

And as much as he loved to see puzzled looks when they appeared on Sherlock's face, he turned around and jumped up the stairs, leaving the consulting detective to ask "They're _still_ more? _Jooohn_!" into the darkness of the hallway.

* * *

There we go :) i was not really happy with Molly's , but I'm really happy with this one. Somehow i like to paint Tattoos on John, so there will definetly be another one for him.  
Next up though will be, and it's gonna be amazing i can tell you that, Master Mycroft Holmes!


	7. Mycroft and Anthea

My shortest so far for Mister Mycroft Holmes and his shadow Anthea. It is an amazing idea i think, and it doesn't need a lot of words. I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

**Studies in Ink 7**

Mycroft Holmes hated tattoos. The thought of having ink stitched into his skin for eternity just for the sake of decoration was an inconvenient thought, not at all aesthetic, or hygienic for that matter. But that did not mean, that he wouldn't get one. Other than most citizens of planet earth, he had no choice in the matter.

„Oh, Mummy would be disappointed if she knew.", he thought, lying flat on his stomach at the tattoo parlour, disguised on the outside as a long ago abandoned butcher's shop.

"Don't worry, Sir.", said Anthea who somehow seemed to sense his discomfort, sitting in a chair, waiting for him, typing away happily on her phone. "Nobody will be able to see it."

And that was exactly the point. Ten minutes later, Mycroft refused to make a sound as the sharp pain of the needle dug into his neck, stitching in five numbers and his name into the flesh, visible only under Black Light.

The British government had adopted this new trend of tattooing for security purposes. Party-People all over the world who visited discos and clubs on a regurlar basis had started to get Black Light tattoos, that would glow in the dark, a particular trend seemed to be getting the wings of an angel on your back. The government adapted this technique to brand their top members on the "highly-to-be-abducted-or-killed" list.

Apparently, working for the secret service, Mycroft had to get a tattoo, in case someone tried to steal his identity. The individual numbers, as well as his name on his neck would be used for the worst case scenario as well as for identification – for example Baskerville labs. The worst case being kidnapped, killed and dumped into the Thames or body destroyed beyond recognition, an invisible tattoo was a clever idea and unlikely to be detected or copied by terrorist agencies.

Half an hour later he got up and sighed while putting his shirt back on – of all the sacrifices he had made for Queen and Country, somehow this one seemed to be one of the more disturbing ones. Even when he could remove the plaster and the skin evened out, he was sure that Sherlock would be able to tell that something was different.

But as long as it was only the consulting detective, the government and his secretary, he hoped that the sacrifice was worth it. He was just glad that the humiliation of tiny angel wings had not been placed upon him.

He had to admit though, when Anthea lay down on the bench to get her tattoo, a tiny invisible butterfly stitched into her neck, he couldn't have thought of a better symbol to represent his right hand.

* * *

This technique really exist, i saw a documentary about it a few months ago - funny thing that :)  
Next up will be, and i've waited a long time for this - GREG LESTRADE :)


	8. Greg

**Hey guys :) It's finally here, the Tattoo of my beloved Greg Lestrade. I like him, he's fabulous and such a loyal guy. The story about his tattoo is simple, but i like it and i think it suits him well. This story is supposed to be the first meeting of Sherlock and Greg, long before they get to know John. Hope you like it.**

* * *

**Studies in Ink 8**

The first and only time Sherlock Holmes saw the tattoo of Detective Inspector Lestrade, was when he was close to drowning. At first, he saw nothing. The water of the Thames was so dirty, nobody could see a thing. But Sherlock felt the water moving around him, the fuzzyness in his head, created by the blow to the back of his skull and the screaming of his lungs, desperate for oxygen.

Shortly before breathing the dirty water into his lungs, the surface was broken and a man grabbed for him blindly, pulling him back to the surface and pulling him onto the pebble-covered shore.

Breathing hard, sucking the much needed air into his lungs, Sherlock searched frankly for the person who had saved his life. Next to him was a man he did not know, also catching his breath, but checking for injury. Slowly he shifted a few of Sherlocks wet locks from his forehead to look into his eyes.

"Are you hurt? Can you hear me?", he asked, his voice breathless, but calm. His hands were steady, his eyes full of concern. The man had grey hair, gentle but determined eyes and apparently did not care for the cold that was surrounding them.

Sherlock couldn't answer, but he started observing instead. His vision still was blurred, but he could see the very large tattoo covering the right upper arm of his lifesaver. It seemed the man had covered his skin with the image of a wave, resembling an old japanese tattoo. He was not sure but he also thought he could make out the occasional goldfish and nautic symbols, but he was definitely sure that this man was either a sailor for tattooing water into his skin, or that he was just a hopeless romantic.

Sherlock started coughing and tried to sit up. The mysterious man helped him to steady himself. He was freezing, shivering all over, while his lifesaver did not seem affected by the cold at all. Ironically, Sherlock was still wearing his suit while the tattooed man was shirtless, his jeans and shoes drenched.

Suddenly the air was filled with sirens and the flickering blue light of an ambulance. Sherlock heard the sound of people running over, kicking the pebbles and stones on the shore. The man was talking again, but Sherlock didn't hear it. The fuzzyness in his head was back. Suddenly, everything went black and the mysterious man had to catch the full weight of the guy he had just fished out of the Thames.

* * *

"Oh God."

Mycroft only rolled his eyes and sighed. Surely, if the first thing he would see was the face of his brother after waking up, he would not be pleased either, but there were slightly more pressing matters at hand than their ongoing sibling rivalry.

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?", Sherlock asked, trying to sit up. He found that he couldn't, without his head starting to spin, so he closed his eyes again and betted his head against the pillow, just listening to his brothers voice.

"Your latest drug dealer, dear brother, gave you a spectacular blow to the head, which sent you flying off a bridge and into the Thames. Lucky for you, he was being observed by Scotland Yard, which lead to Detective Inspector Lestrade jumping after you and saving your life."

Wonderful. Was it so hard to be a drug addict these days? Exhausted, Sherlock covered his already closed eyes with his hands and sighed. He could feel that Mycroft was about to say something more, but the chance was taken by someone entering the room.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't know he had company. Who might you be, if you don't mind me asking?"

The voice, it seemed familiar. Sherlock peeked through his fingers and saw the grey haired man again. Detective Inspector, eh? Wonderful. His lifesaver would be the one to charge him for drug posession.

"Mycroft Holmes.", his visitor said, offering his hand to the Inspector. "I am given to understand that you jumped after my idiot brother and saved his life? "

Sherlock snorted, but said nothing.

They talked for a while, exchanging information and chit-chatting. Sherlock didn't listen up until the point where Mycroft excused himself to leave and tend to his government issues. The Inspector took a seat next to him, but before he could say anything, Sherlock threw the words at him that had been sitting on his tongue for a while now.

"Did your wife make it?"

"I'm sorry, I don't understand."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sat up straight, slowly this time, and explained.

"You jumped after me in a haste, but threw your jacket, your jumper and your t-shirt away before jumping, despite it being awfully freezing. The only article of clothing a simple housewife is able of making herself is something like a jumper, so I'm reasoning that you did not want it to be damaged or soaked. The reason is either because you love her very much and don't want her hard work ruined, or that she would yell at you and you don't fancy another argument with her, which is more likely. I'm just asking to be polite, as you are the one who saved my life, apparently."

Greg sat at the edge of the bed an said nothing for a while. Only much later, Sherlock understood how important this one deduction was for the rest of his life.

The next day, Lestrade came with the file of a cold case to the hospital, which Sherlock was able to solve withing minutes. He was offered a deal. Helping out on occasion on cases and quit the drugs, in exchange of not being charged with drug posession and interfearing with police business.

Sherlock agreed, but weeks afterwards something was still bugging him. After finishing his first official case, he just asked Lestrade about the tattoo he had seen.

The explanation was simple, really. Gregs father had been a sailor, they had lived near the sea for almost all of his childhood and the water was the element he was most comfortable with. He always felt like a fish while swimming, rain and the humid weather in London were his best friend.

Sherlock never heard of it again until years later, when Lestrade was telling John about it, and he never told anyone that he thought the waves of water on Gregs skin and the goldfish were the perfect fit for his lifesaver.

* * *

I hope you liked it, i'm a little proud of it. IT's one of my favourite tattoos so far!

Next up, either MRS. HUDSON or Irene Adler, i'm not sure yet. What do you want?


	9. The dead Woman

**Irene**

John refused to believe what he saw.

The thing was, when you refuse to see something, you carry on as nothing is happening. So when the good doctor came home from his shift at the surgery an hour early and saw Sherlock having tea with Irene-supposed-to-be-dead-Adler in their living room, (sitting in HIS armchair) he froze, blinked a few times at the scene and the two surprised faces, turned to the left and decided tea was the solution to everything, as always.

He heard the distant mumbling in the living room, the shifting of a chair, and footsteps slowly entering the kitchen.

„John-"

„No."

„But John-"

„No."

Sherlock grumbled, but did not dare to get any closer to John. He had not anticipated his return so early. He had business with Irene, a new case she brought to his attention and also something she had to tell him, quite important. And she had helped him during his time away from London. How could he refuse her?

„What? You're not even going to let me explain why she's here?"

„Oh, you mean why there is a dead woman in my living room, who i expect to be gone once my tea is ready?", he said, the second part of the sentence even louder, so she could hear him from the kitchen.

"She is not going to leave, John.", Sherlock said, and it was final. The fact that these words made the doctor more mad than anything the consulting detective could have said, seemed to be one of the things he was spectarularly ignorant about.

The kettle whistled and John poured the hot water over his tea bag, before speaking, trying to remain calm.

"You realise that when Mycroft finds out about this, he's going to be pissed."

"Don't worry, John. I'm not going to stay.", said Irene, who had appeared behind Sherlock, eyeing him carefully. The doctors jaw clenched, and he turned around, so he didn't have to see her.

"I'm not talking to you. You're dead."

Sherlock sighed, but he could almost feel the smirk that crawled onto Irenes face.

"Talking to ghosts then, are we? Don't worry, i'll be out of your hair soon."

The detective ushered her out of the kitchen, returning to the living room and John remained, clutching onto his steaming cup of tea like it was a lifeline.

How could she be alive? Mycroft was certain that he-. And then it came to him. Sherlock must have had something to do with it.

Thoughts about his appearance came back to him. He had always said that he had spent some time with Molly, then going to America for a while. John presumed he had stayed with her. Before he could think any further, Irene was suddenly back in the kitchen, keeping her distance.

Sherlock, as it seemed, was playing his violin quite loudly – whether to not hear their conversation or to think, John didn't know.

John surely did not want to start a conversation, he did not even want to talk to the woman in front of him. She seemed to notice, because she took a deep breath and spoke up.

"My flight back to L.A. leaves in three hours. I had business to take care of, but i'll be gone in a while. You don't have to worry."

John finally found the courage to look at her. She had dyed her hair, it was slightly darker than the last time he had seen her. Her makeup was very discreet, as were her clothes. A simple skirt and a jumper, very different from her usual getup. That was how she tired to escape Mycrofts eyes.

"Why are you here, then? Business with Sherlock, was it?" He almost hated himself for the jealousy and the anger in his voice, but if Irene noticed, she was kind enough to not play with it.

She shook her head though.

"I owe this man my life. I helped him during his... disappearance, but no favour in the world could ever pay him back what he did for me. So the least I could do was see him while I was here and invite him to my wedding."

He almost dropped his teacup in shock, the violin playing even louder now. He had never thougt he would hear the words wedding and Irene Adler in one sentence, but he was positive he did not mishear.

"Y-You're getting married?"

As if sensing his disbelief, Irene took another step and held up her hand for him. It surely was no ordinary wedding ring. Instead of a band of metal, Irenes right ringfinger had a band of ink around her finger that went on to form small handcuffs that were gracing the back of her hand. It was a small tattoo, a great idea for a wedding vow and, that was the most important part, irremovable, for life – so not a joke.

"Her name is Lucy. Lovely woman. Look, John. I know you and I are not friends, I am pretty sure you hate me. But Sherlock accepted my invitation, and he can bring a plus one. So if you decide to go with him, you are hereby invited. It's your choice, the wedding is in two months. And now go and talk to him, he's playing that instrument because he doesn't want to hear us killing each other."

After saying that, she left. At this moment, John had thought that he would never see her again – but after Sherlock had told him the long and exhausting story of what Irene had done to help him, he had agreed to go to the wedding. But one thing was sure. The Woman would never be a friend of his, and he would forever be jealous for not being able to help Sherlock in these difficult times, while Irene had the chance to mend his wounds.

* * *

Irene Adler gets married in the original books in her first appearance, to a man with lots of money. So I thought her getting married is not so off the line. What do you think of it? Do you like her handcuff-weddingring-tattoo? I think it's great..

NEXT UP: ANDERSON ! (I'm saving Mrs. Hudson for one of the last)


	10. Anderson

**Alright! It took me a while and it's a really short one, but i hope you like my uptake on a tattoo for Anderson! Enjoy!**

* * *

**Studies in Ink 10 - Anderson  
**

Sherlock would have never thought that Anderson of all people was the kind of guy to get a tattoo, and if the circumstances would not have been so dramatic, he probably would have never seen it.

A week had passed now since the Yard had started the seach for Sergeant Sally Donovan, who had gone missing on her way home from work.

The seriousness of the case was only underlined by the fact that Sherlock and Anderson were not bickering _at all_.

It seemed they were both adult enough to know that they needed to work together. The consulting detective hated the fact, but he knew that, even if it was only sometimes, Anderson was useful and not as bad at his job as it seemed to be. And Anderson, knowing that they had a very low chance to find Sally without Sherlock, let him be and tried to be useful.

Three more days passed until Sherlock could finally pinpoint the location where Sally was being held. Upon arriving at the abandoned house which used to be a printing company, they found the woman, naked but for her underwear, with bruisings all over her body, tied to a chair, but a tired smile on her face when they found her.

Anderson lost no time and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing his bare chest, and covered Sallys shivering shoulders, while John tried to talk to her and checked for injuries.

Upon seeing his bare back, Sherlock had to admit that it was a strange tattoo.

It looked just like an x-ray. Anderson had the image of his spine, at least a part of it, tattoed on his back. He was quite sure that, if the barrier of flesh would not have been in the way, the bones underneath would have been the same.

The image did not leave his thoughts, and it annoyed him to no end, that the topic on his mind was _Anderson_. Weeks after Sally had been rescued and the criminals had been sent to jail, Sherlock could not take it any longer.

John did not want to discuss the obviously stolen medical files that were spread on their kitchen table after one of Sherlocks strolls into the darkness of London the night before and ignored them.

Upon reading the files, Sherlock found out about Andersons spine damage from when he was a kid, and what dangerous and painful therapy he had to go through to get his spine back to normal.

Deep in tought, he brought the file back the following night, but couldn't stop wondering if even with his deduction, there were just some things in a persons past, that you could not see without an x-ray.

* * *

**Anderson gave me a real problem, because it took me a long time to find something I thought was good. A first i wanted to write something funny and humiliating, but then I thought, there is always more to a person than what you can see, and Anderson, altough he is the Antagonist of the series, is obviously not an exception. **

**I hope you liked it. I'm thinking of maybe doing a piece on Mrs. Hudson or Harry. Or maybe another Sherlock one. i don 't know yet.**


End file.
